Martyn, dazed with brandy and sleep, it was a distortion of a daydream. Very often had she dreamt herself into a theatre where all was confusion because the leading actress had laryngitis and the understudy was useless. She would present herself modestly: ‘I happen to know the lines. I could perhaps …’ The sudden attentiveness, when she began to speak the lines … the opening night … the grateful tears streaming down the boiled shirts of the management … the critics … no image had been too gross for her.
‘Eileen?’ said the voice. ‘Thank God! Listen, darling, it’s Bob Grantley here. Listen, Eileen, I want you to do something terribly kind. I know it’s asking a hell of a lot but I’m in trouble and you’re my last hope. Helena’s dresser’s ill. Yes, indeed, poor old Tansey. Yes, I’m afraid so. Just this afternoon, and we haven’t been able to raise anybody. First dress-rehearsal tomorrow night and a photograph call in the morning and nothing unpacked or anything. I know what a good soul you are and I wondered … O, God! I see. Yes, I see. No, of course. Oh, well, never mind. I know you would. Yes. ’Bye.’
Silence. Precariously alone in the foyer, she meditated an advance upon the man beyond the glass wall and suppressed a dreadful impulse in herself towards hysteria. This was her daydream in terms of reality. She must have slept longer than she had thought. Her feet were sleeping still. She began to test them, tingling and pricking, against the floor. She could see her reflection in the front doors, a dingy figure with a pallid face and cavernous shadows for eyes.
The light behind the glass wall went out. There was, however, still a yellow glow coming through the box-office door. As she got to her feet and steadied herself, the door opened.
‘I believe,’ she said, ‘you are looking for a dresser.’
II
As he had stopped dead in the lighted doorway she couldn’t see the man clearly but his silhouette was stocky and trim.
He said with what seemed to be a mixture of irritation and relief: ‘Good Lord, how long have you been here?’
‘Not long. You were on the telephone. I didn’t like to interrupt.’
‘Interrupt!’ he ejaculated as if she talked nonsense.
He looked at his watch, groaned, and said rapidly: ‘You’ve come about this job? From Mrs Greenacres, aren’t you?’
She wondered who Mrs Greenacres could be? An employment agent? She hunted desperately for the right phrase, the authentic language.
‘I understood you required a dresser and I would be pleased to apply.’ Should she have added ‘sir’?
‘It’s for Miss Helena Hamilton,’ he said rapidly. ‘Her own dresser who’s been with her for years – for a long time – has been taken ill. I explained to Mrs Greenacres. Photograph call for nine in the morning and first dress-rehearsal tomorrow night. We open on Thursday. The dressing’s heavy. Two quick changes and so on. I suppose you’ve got references?’
Her mouth was dry. She said: ‘I haven’t brought –’ and was saved by the telephone bell. He plunged back into the office and she heard him shout ‘Vulcan’ into the receiver. ‘Grantley, here,’ he said. ‘Oh, hallo, darling. Look, I’m desperately sorry, but I’ve been held up or I’d have rung you before. For God’s sake apologize for me. Try and keep them going till I get there. I know, I know. Not a smell of one until –’ the voice became suddenly muffled. She caught isolated words. ‘I think so … yes, I’ll ask … yes … Right. ’Bye, darling.’
He darted out, now wearing a hat and struggling into a raincoat. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘Miss –’
‘Tarne.’
‘Miss Tarne. Can you start right away? Miss Hamilton’s things are in her dressing-room. They need to be unpacked and hung out tonight. There’ll be a lot of pressing. The cleaners have been in but the room’s not ready. You can finish in the morning but she wants the things that can’t be ironed – I wouldn’t know – hung out. Here are the keys. We’ll see how you get on and fix up something definite tomorrow if you suit. The night-watchman’s there. He’ll open the room for you. Say I sent you. Here!’
He fished out a wallet, found a card and scribbled on it. ‘He is a bit of a stickler: you’d better take this.’
She took the card and the keys. ‘Tonight?’ she said.
‘Now?’
‘Well, can you?’
‘I – yes. But –’
‘Not worrying about after-hours, are you?’
‘No.’
For the first time he seemed, in the darkish foyer, to be looking closely at her. ‘I suppose,’ he muttered, ‘it’s a bit –’ and stopped short.
Martyn said in a voice that to herself sounded half-choked: ‘I’m perfectly trustworthy. You spoke of references. I have –’
‘Oh, yes, yes,’ he said. ‘Good. That’ll be OK then. I’m late. Will you be all right? You can go through the house. It’s raining outside. Through there, will you? Thank you. Goodnight.’
Taking up her suitcase, she went through the door he swung open and found herself in the theatre.
She was at the back of the stalls, standing on thick carpet at the top of the ramp and facing the centre aisle. It was not absolutely dark. The curtain was half-raised and a bluish light filtered in from off-stage through some opening – a faintly-discerned window – in the scenery. This light was dimly reflected on the shrouded boxes. The dome was invisible, lost in shadow, and so far above that the rain, hammering on the roof beyond it, sounded much as a rumour of drums to Martyn. The deadened air smelt of naphthalene and plush.
She started off cautiously down the aisle. ‘I forgot,’ said Mr Grantley’s voice behind her. She managed to choke back a yelp. ‘You’d better get some flowers for the dressing-room. She likes roses. Here’s another card.’
‘I don’t think I’ve –’
‘Florian’s at the corner,’ he shouted. ‘Show them the card.’
The door swung to behind him and, a moment later, she heard a more remote slam. She waited for a little while longer, to accustom herself to the dark. The shadows melted and the shape of the auditorium filtered through them like an image on a film in the darkroom. She thought it beautiful: the curve of the circle, the fan-like shell that enclosed it, the elegance of the proscenium and modesty of the ornament – all these seemed good to Martyn, and her growing sight of them refreshed her. Though this encouragement had an unreal, rather dream-like character, yet it did actually dispel something of her physical exhaustion so that it was with renewed heart that she climbed a little curved flight of steps on the prompt side of the proscenium, pushed open the pass-door at the top and arrived back-stage.
She was on her own ground. A single blue working-light, thick with dust, revealed a baize letter-rack and hinted at the baton and canvas backs of scenery fading upwards into yawning blackness. At her feet a litter of flex ran down into holes in the stage. There were vague, scarcely discernible shapes that she recognized as stacked flats, light bunches, the underside of perches, a wind machine and rain box. She smelt paint and glue-size. As she received the assurance of these familiar signs she heard a faint scuffling noise, a rattle of paper, she thought. She moved forward.
In the darkness ahead of her a door opened on an oblong of light which widened to admit the figure of a man in an overcoat. He stood with bent head, fumbled in his pocket and produced a torch. The beam shot out, hunted briefly about the set and walls and found her. She blinked into a dazzling white disc and said: ‘Mr Grantley sent me round. I’m the dresser.’
‘Dresser?’ the man said hoarsely. He kept his torchlight on her face and moved towards her. ‘I wasn’t told about no dresser,’ he said.
She held Mr Grantley’s card out. He came closer and flashed his light on it without touching